Entropy
by Miss Hanamura
Summary: A series of vignettes exploring the relationship between Yosuke and Naoto. — "Who was she to judge him from appearance alone?"
1. Entropy

_noun: "Lack of order or predictability; gradual decline into disorder."_

* * *

He thinks he's jealous of her when they first meet—_maybe_, if only a little bit—because she's calm and composed, with curves bending in just the right places, just the right angles, and he's... Well _not_. He's straight and narrow, awkward lines in awkward places, tripping over things that weren't there. Some days, he wishes he could disappear (it's so easy to get lost into his music; it's so much better than being here). And she probably had it all figured out. Had her life planned out to the smallest detail.

The only time they get along is when they're discussing the case, which was a good thing because they melded so perfectly together (finished each other's thoughts, knew where to go when others didn't). Orange and blue. Hot and cold. He almost mentions this once to her, but he had a way of stumbling over his words; she'd take it the wrong way, anyway, think this was his way of hitting on her.

And maybe he was. Or at least, he _wanted_ to.

She was definitely attractive, that he couldn't deny—cream colored skin, rosy lips, long eyelashes, something delicate, something you needed to protect. To hold close to your chest. He catches himself staring more than once. But only because she made it so easy to. She was a challenge. Nothing like Risette (who made herself known when she came into the room, hid nothing to no one) or any of the girls around here, really. Who knew what lingered behind that guarded exterior.

Sometimes he said the things he did just to get a reaction from her, because there was nothing he enjoyed more than seeing some emotion flicker in those grey eyes of hers, see her mask slip and peel and _crack_, if only for the briefest moment.

He wanted to solve the puzzle that was Naoto Shirogane.

She finally meet his eyes from across the table, an eyebrow arched high enough to disappear under the brim of her hat. It's a look he's seen before—mirrored over many faces over the years—but for whatever reason it still gives him chills. Like she was looking right through him, past his skin and bones. He hates how open he was around her. Hates even more that he's slowly letting her in closer. It was only a matter of time until she found what she was looking for (found out what he was thinking), and he was completely exposed.

For the love-struck fool he was.

"Yosuke-senpai," She begins, and even his name sounds prettier on her lips, "Is something bothering you?" _(What are you staring at?)_ She shouldn't care. They weren't friends, not even _close_, but that's just how she was. She'd never say it, but she did care, did feel, was capable of laughter, capable of _love_.

He swallows too thickly, replies with a quick, "Huh? Oh-uh, nope! Course not," and she accepts it with a nod, returns her attention to Rise beside her (who's talking animatedly over nothing in particular).

They both know he's lying (he turns a light pink after that, coughs into his hand to clear his throat), but neither decide to point it out.


	2. Physiognomy

_noun__: "The art of judging human character from facial features."_

* * *

She prided herself in being able to read facial expressions, pick up subtle body movements, little quirks, and habitual patterns. She became so good at it, in fact, that it became a second nature (ideal for any profession, but especially hers). The way she saw it, everything had a reason. Every sigh, every smile, an ulterior motive yet to be discovered. Human beings were such flawed creatures in their own right, and she had no trouble seeing someone for who they really were. The world in her eyes was black and white; there was no gray area in between. Things could never be both safe and dangerous, good and bad (female and male).

The same theory (at least, up until recently) applied to one Yosuke Hanamura, her senior by one year, and another boy she eventually became acquainted with when she joined the Investigation Team. There wasn't much to say about him; on the outside, he wasn't particularly remarkable—russet colored locks, slightly tanned skin, an infuriating (infectious) smirk ever present on his face. In another dimension, he would have never even flown under her radar, for he blended in so well that he was easy enough for her to miss.

But what she did notice was that he was... _Changing_, right before her eyes. No longer was he that brash, artless young man that had put up his life to save hers, but he was mature, and genuine, and, dare she say, slightly _attractive_. He had always worn his heart on his sleeve, but now he wore it proudly. He was unafraid, and seemed to know exactly who he was, and what he needed to do. He had grown, matured greatly over the past few months. It amazed her, this almost abrupt distortion, and she truly believed now that yes, people_ could_ change, and expressions lie, and we are not all that we appear to be (his smile was a mask that she had failed to consider). There are layers, and colors, and mixtures in all of us, all around us.

Who was she to judge him from appearance alone? She who knew what it was like to be kicked down, and rejected simply for the tone of your voice, what you wore under pressed cotton shirts with buttons. All this time, she thought nothing of him. She underestimated him. Chalked him up as an annoyance, a classmate that time after time got under her skin, knew what to say to get her heart racing (see herself differently).

She had been wrong about him. So very, very wrong.


End file.
